The Kiss
by henbee
Summary: They didn't mean for it to happen. After all, they were friends. Just friends. As in, capitalized, Just Friends and Stiles had been so sure it would remain that way. Anyway, he'd been getting over her, hadn't he? Slowly, but surely. He'd been moving on... But then they'd kissed. /a meta-like oneshot of the Stydia kiss from 3Ax11. Enjoy :)


They didn't mean for it to happen.

After all, they were friends. Just friends. As in, capitalized, Just Friends and Stiles had been so sure it would remain that way. Anyway, he'd been getting over her, hadn't he? Slowly, but surely. He'd been moving on. He'd realized that he didn't need to have Lydia in his life as his love – she could be his friend, too. And he was happy with that.

But then they'd kissed.

It hadn't been romantic, not really. Essentially, it was like calling Stiles giving Cora mouth-to-mouth a revelation of love; it wasn't, it had been a survival mechanism. Just like Lydia had kissed Stiles to slow down his breathing – it had been a way to save Stiles from himself, to calm him down. It hadn't meant anything.

But... It had.

At first, it had shocked Stiles. What was she – was Lydia – were they finally – _what_?

Honestly, shock was an understatement. He'd stared at her as she kissed him, utterly bewildered, his panic attack and the Darach and even his and Allison's fathers and Scott's mom being held captive forgotten. And in forgetting that, Stiles had forgotten why Lydia was kissing him – he'd just known she was.

So he closed his eyes and, despite the fact he was completely mindblown that Lydia Martin, girl of his dreams, was kissing him on the locker room floor, kissed her back.

For those few, few moments, there was nothing else in the world. It was just him, him, _Stiles_, Stiles and Lydia.

Kissing.

It was... It was unlike anything Stiles had ever felt before. Her lips were so soft, so gentle, but he could feel it – just _something_, that something she was trying to tell him – in her urgency, the way she'd pressed her mouth so quickly to his and held his face to hers, keeping him there, refusing to let him go.

Time had stopped. Everything had stopped. Even his breathing had stopped which, although Lydia had later confirmed to be the whole point of the exercise, deemed the kiss completely breathtaking in Stiles' mind. And yes, he found that funny.

Though, despite all of that, despite how wonderful it had felt to feel the warmth of Lydia's hand pressed against his cheek and her sweet, hot breath mixed with his, Stiles knew it was nothing. A dream. Meaningless. He'd known it before Lydia had even pulled away, deep down knowing that given the choice and her confirmation, Stiles would never willingly let her go. Stiles would forever cherish the memory, but ultimately, Lydia's kiss was serving a function, completing a purpose. Only Stiles knew how much it had meant to him.

But then there was a moment. A glimmer of hope before the balance of the world was restored, before reality hit them both home and Stiles realized there was still so much at stake.

A moment when, after pulling away, Lydia rest her forehead against his – and after pulling away, kept her eyes closed, before those wonderful, emerald green eyes Stiles fell asleep dreaming about, stared into his own with shock etched into her features.

Stiles had been staring at her in confusion, not understanding. Well? That was all Stiles could think. _Well_, Lydia? Why? Did you feel that? Well? Am I going crazy, _well_?

But Lydia's expression had given him an answer. Her parted lips, her wide eyes, her hushed voice – stammering her words, barely above a whisper, her face – her mouth – still just inches away.

She had felt it. They both had. And it had been like a knife to the gut, or more relevantly, a slash to the throat; all feeling had left their bodies, leaving them deflated as they realized just how much that kiss meant. It was everything. It was an embodiment of everything they'd been through; the pain and the trauma and the tears and the hardship – but the laughter, too, and the acceptance that had been so slow but so worth it and the friendship and the respect for one another's abilities. The maturity they'd both been forced to show.

Stiles had been shaking. But it was no longer from the panic attack; no, no, Lydia had successfully dealt with that. No, Stiles had been shaking because of the fear that had his heart gripped in its palm – the fear that he'd never feel Lydia's lips on his again, and the realization that he wanted it more than anything.

It had hurt Lydia, too. Because never, in all the boys she'd kissed and all the hearts she'd touched, _never _had it felt – never had it felt like she was in love with them.

Oh God. She couldn't have thought that. She wasn't in love with Stiles. She couldn't be.

"H-how did you do that?" Stiles had finally rasped, wonder and hurt and wooziness threatening to make his head explode. Except his mind was clear now – Lydia had made him breathe again.

How had she done that? How had, just holding his face alone, slowed down his breathing – and how had one kiss taken him home?

_How did you do that?_

They stared at one another for a moment, something passing between them, fighting to keep them close.

Lydia licked her lips. She was fine, they were fine. Crisis averted. That was all she'd been doing. Averting a crisis, helping a friend.

"I, uhh-" Lydia was fighting to not focus on his eyes, those familiar brown eyes that were looking into hers with such trust and devotion, it frightened her. "I read once that... Holding your breath could stop a panic attack?" It came out as more of a question than Lydia had intended, as if she needed Stiles' verification. What was wrong with her? When had Lydia _ever _seeked verification from someone else? She was... She was a confident and intelligent young woman, she didn't need... She didn't need Stiles to _agree_, so then why was she – it didn't make sense, it just – no. No, she had to keep talking, she had to stop thinking. "So... When I kissed you... You held your breath."

The familiar tingle of tears behind her eyes made Lydia's heartbeat quicken and she could only be thankful there were no werewolves around to hear it. _When I kissed you_. That hadn't even been the hardest part!

He'd held his breath. That shouldn't shock her, though, really. After all, plenty of people held their breath when kissing. It happened. It was a thing that... That happened.

Except it didn't happen with her. Boys breathed heavily when kissing Lydia, sure, they put their hands on her body and sometimes – like Ethan – they'd be careful so as to not wake her temper, but... But nobody held her breath for her.

Nobody's heart stopped just because of her kiss.

Something flickered across Stiles' face, an emotion Lydia desperately wished she didn't want to so badly decipher.

"I did?" Stiles questioned, searching her face for answers. He did that? He'd held his breath? But he hadn't been able to before – it hadn't been him, it was _never _him, he was never enough.

Lydia had made him enough.

"Yeah." Lydia nodded, pride and fear and tears at the ready. Her voice dropped, in a last-ditch attempt to keep her nerves. "You did."

But he hadn't. There was a _we _in there, or at least Lydia desperately wanted there to be, but she was petrified, because what if that had meant nothing? How could... How could Stiles sit there and trust her so implicitly, when she'd barely known his name for so long?

Stiles sniffed, forcing himself to push through his overwhelming exhaustion of feeling.

"Thanks." He managed to say. He was okay. He was okay, he could breathe again. He could act normal. Well... "That was really smart."

He meant so much more than that. Lydia wasn't just smart for kissing him to allow him to breathe easy – she was smart in every way, she was book-smart and savvy and logical and beautiful and so, so much more, but Stiles just couldn't find the words.

For a moment, Lydia's eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and mild irritation. Right. She was... Smart.

Lydia forced a laugh, rubbing her hands against her thighs. The spell was broken, or breaking, at least. Smart. She'd just kissed him, Stiles, the boy who was supposedly besotted with her – and the reaction she'd gotten was that she was _smart_. She hadn't seen the admiration in his eyes – not the boyish, excited admiration he'd had for her before, but a mature admiration, an understanding and wonder at how he'd missed so much of her depth before now – no. The word _smart _just rang in her head like a warning bell.

"I just-" They both moved, settling more comfortably on the cool locker room floor, the sudden awkwardness palpable between them. "I don't know, I just read it somewhere."

Lydia gently punched Stiles' leg, in a forced effort to act normal. Stiles flinched at the contact – it was too soon, his body was too wired – whether from the attack or the kiss, he was now unsure – for her to touch him without jolts of electricity running down his spine. He glanced away, only to glance back at her again, almost angry this time – God, didn't she know what she did to him? Didn't she _know_?

"And if I was really smart," Lydia began, slowly slipping back into herself and remembering who she was, who _he _was. "I'd tell you to sign up for a few sessions with the guidance counsellor."

They both sighed with laughter, a moment of self-deprecation and humility at everything that had just happened.

But then Stiles suddenly stopped. _Guidance counsellor_.

"Morell." Stiles said, realization hitting him.

Lydia glanced at him. Of course.

And just like that, their kiss, that charge, it was all forgotten, at least for now. Because now Stiles had his breath back, they both had work to do. People to save.

Kisses to pretend were only exchanged between _friends_.

And then they were running, running towards Morell's office and even the thought that their kiss had been something more.


End file.
